


A Hogwarts Christmas

by gwynseren



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Christmas, Christmas Fluff, Christmas at Hogwarts, Eventual James Potter/Lily Evans Potter, Eventual Sirius Black/Remus Lupin, Feel-good, First Kiss, Fluff, Hogwarts, M/M, Marauders' Era, Sirius Black/Remus Lupin Fluff, Tooth-Rotting Fluff, Yule Ball (Harry Potter)
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-11-26
Updated: 2018-12-21
Packaged: 2019-08-29 20:26:54
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 17,949
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16750984
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/gwynseren/pseuds/gwynseren
Summary: Dumbledore makes an announcement and Christmas chaos ensues. In which the students prepare for a ball, Christmas has taken over Hogwarts, the houses complete to win the Christmas Games, everyone goes a little loopy from too much Christmas cheer and Sirius has a realisation. Marauder era Christmas fic as fluffy and sickly-sweet as peppermint candy cane cocktails, with no apologies. Eventual Sirius/Remus, James/Lily.





	1. Monday

There is whipped cream on the end of Sirius Black’s nose.

It’s been there since his first helping of Christmas pudding and it adds, he thinks cheerfully, to the whole charm of the moment; the gently dissolving snow falling from the ceiling, the floating candles in red, green and gold and the contrast of the dark, cold night outside with the general buzz of festive excitement inside where the Hall is warm and crowded with well-fed and well-humoured students, brim-full of sweets and the kind of bursting happiness that only comes with the winding-down of the calendar year and all the festivities therein. As he goes cross-eyed looking down the line of his aristocratic nose towards it, he is obscenely aware that he is one of the very few – maybe the _only_ , even – students who can turn getting whipped cream on his face into an accolade of personality so powerful and irresistible that eventually everyone will become suckered into it. _By the end of the meal,_ he tells himself happily, _everyone will be putting whipped cream on the end of their noses: “Oh, Sirius!” they will say “You are so whipped and creamy!”_

He throws his head back and starts laughing.

“You know, you laugh like a madman.” Remus, when he speaks, gets a little wrinkle at the end of _his_ nose that Sirius thinks would be much improved by cream of any kind, and would have suggested it if he weren’t laughing so much “I swear, one day we’re going to see that maniacal laugh on the cover of The Prophet under the heading ‘Ministry’s latest arrests.’”

Remus pauses, but when Sirius fails to stop cackling he adds: “Sirius? Whatever is so funny?”

Sirius laughs even louder at that. He is vaguely aware that around him, Gryffindor sixth years are shooting him oddly bemused looks, but even that only tickles him further. Already full of more _good cheer_ and _goodwill to all men_ than any boy of sixteen should be capable of, there is just something about the way Remus’ face wrestles between looking confused and disturbed that is _seriously the funniest thing ever_. Sirius’ stomach is practically crumbling over how funny it is. _His face!_ Sirius’ brain screams at him: _look at his face!_

“It’s no good, Moony” James pipes up from across the table over a mouthful of mince pies “we’ve lost him to the voices inside his head – _you_ know how he gets. Frightful. Before too long he’ll start a rousing chorus of Ring the Hogwarts Bell and then: the hornpipe.”

“Like last year, with all the stomping and the broken glasses.” Adds Peter.

“Oh, Merlin,” Remus says, suddenly remembering, “And the firewhiskey and the mistletoe and those three Ravenclaw girls in the broom cupboard….”

“He almost set the common room on fire, you know.”

“Nearly-headless Nick nearly lost his head…..”

“ _And_ he threw up in a helmet.”

“Gentlemen! Such exaggerations!”

Sirius knows that he can’t really help himself. He feels that if were he to stop, he would pop and spray the whole bench with glitter and baubles and cherry brandy and party streamers and little bits of paper with jokes written on them that no one would really understand, and that would make _such a mess_ ; Moony would have his head.

“I never did such a thing; I threw up on Snape’s potions homework and he shouldn’t have left it just _lying around_ in Proffer Slughorn’s office when I had a hankering for that apricot liquor he keeps locked in his desk _and besides which_ those glasses were already broken.”

Sirius fixes James with a wicked, knowing look and wiggles his eyebrows.

“ _And_ I wasn’t the only one singing and dancing through the corridors into the wee hours of the morning, eh Prongsie??”

“I have seen the error of my ways” James exclaims almost too loudly. He shoots a cautious eye down the table towards the Inevitable and fails spectacularly at being sly, but not even that can bother Sirius tonight. He knows when he has the upper hand. It’s in the _eyebrows_ , he thinks. He wiggles them again and flashes James an I-know-you-better-than-that smile. Almost instantly, James caves. Sirius knows that he is secretly delighted to.

“Alright,” James says as his own smile tugs at his lips, “Two choruses and a Christmas waltz – and then I say we take the party to Hogsmead this year, because we can.”

Sirius whoops and claps hands with him across the remnants of chocolate pudding and the cream that Peter had spilled earlier.

“Three cheers for James Potter, mastermind of Grand Ideas!” he announces and then fixes Remus and Peter with looks of their own, pointing a finger at them each in turn.

“That’s the kind of Christmas spirit I want to see from the both of you.” He winks and then slings an arm casually around Remus’ neck and ruffles his hair.

“You know, you kissed Kingsley last year. On the lips. His face looked like thunder. I’m not doing _that_. But alright.” Peter acquiesces and then as an afterthought reaches for another mince pie.

Sirius smirks, satisfied but not surprised with winning them over. It’s not like he was going to have much of a problem, anyway. Each year it’s the same – some faint, hardly passable form of protest just for propriety, and then faster than you could say Snape Sucks Cock the four of them are stealing mulled wine from the staff room and kick starting their week the way only a marauder can, morning classes be damned. It’s only ever Remus who’s genuinely a bit reluctant. Sirius thinks it’s something to do with his mother and _not upsetting things_. Still, Sirius knows it’s in Remus regardless, like a dormant instinct awaiting permission. Sirius loves giving him permission. He’s going to give him permission right now. He turns his head towards Remus, who looks up at him from where he is sort of tucked – cosy, warm, close - into the crook of his shoulder, and waits for the objections. Remus catches Sirius’ eye. He has this _look_ , as if he knows exactly what Sirius is thinking. It’s sort of evil, but also terribly exciting. Sirius is waiting for _but we’ve got transfiguration at nine_ when Remus suddenly lifts up a hand and then with a swoop of his index finger wipes the cream off the end of Sirius’ nose, _because that’s just like him_.

“That’s just like you.” Sirius tells him. Remus gives him a wonky sort of smile.

It takes Sirius a while to notice the sudden hush that reluctantly settles over the Hall from the Hufflepuff table outwards. There’s nothing more to eat anyway, but Sirius doesn’t want it to stop just yet. Feasting is the first sanctity of Christmas tradition; something to be done keenly and taken seriously and to be eked out until the very last of the crumbs has been dismantled into even smaller crumbs. His arm, he thinks regretfully, was only just getting comfortable. He removes it anyway, when the line between Remus’ shoulder blades gets all tense as he starts to think things, Sirius guesses, like _everyone is looking_ and _it feels inappropriate_ and its only then, after realising that he’s making Moony uncomfortable, that Sirius looks up to see what’s going on.

It’s old Dumbledoodle, stood up in a rather self-satisfied way at his podium, eyeing them all with a curious expression. Even Sirius falls quiet at that, and waits. When the silence is adequate, Dumbledore starts.

“I trust you have all enjoyed this year’s Festive Feast, held traditionally on the last Monday before Christmas break in order to mark the beginning of a week of festivities and Christmas celebrations here at Hogwarts, before most of you will return home to your families for the remainder of the holidays.”

Here he stops and everyone claps. Sirius thinks that when he was younger, Dumbledore mustn’t have had much opportunity to celebrate Christmas, giving how mad for it he is now. Dumbledore holds up one hand and the clapping stops. _That’s power_ , Sirius thinks darkly, grinning. Dumbledore starts again.

“This year we have outdone ourselves as teachers and harbingers of the Christmas Spirit and have planned a week of, I think, quite spectacular Christmas treats.”

More clapping. Resentfully, Sirius’ hands are beginning to sting. Above the noise, Dumbledore’s voice rings clear a third time.

“But what I am most proud of this year is the return of a tradition previously upheld by this institution that dates back to the days of its founding. Some years ago there was an…..incident of the _most_ unfortunate kind….that brought about the postponing of this event until such a time as it could be deemed fit to return. I am glad to announce tonight that this year is such a time!”

A mummer of anticipation spreads throughout the hall. Sirius doesn’t fail to catch the little twitch that flutters James’ eyelid.

“Pads,” he whispers to Sirius out of the corner of his mouth without moving his head. They’re experts at this now, conversing covertly at every given opportunity, “What do you think he’s cracking on about?”

Sirius bites his lip and raises one eyebrow.

“Beats me,” he whispers back, “he’s got a look in his eye like he’s about to tell us he’s Father Christmas himself, mad old coot.”

“We will, of course, have to make some adjustments to the weeks schedule,” Dumbledore is now saying, “the details of which will be passed on to you by your House Prefects” – Sirius side-eyes Remus, who shrugs defensively looking even more confused than he did earlier – “who themselves will be informed as soon as those details have been arranged, but for now it is my great pleasure to announce to you all that here in this very hall, on Friday night, we will hold the return of the Yule Ball!”

A collective gasp fills the hall. Voices begin to circulate, friend turning to friend with exclamations of _Yule ball! wow! I can’t dance for toffee, you know! I haven’t anything to wear!_ and even _what’s a Yule ball?_ from some of the younger students. Talk quickly accumulates and soon the whole hall is thrumming with the loud noises of an equally excited and terrified student body. Sirius feels more than sees the three of them – Moony, Wormtail and Prongs – turn to look at him. He can’t help the grin that splits his face.

When Dumbledore raises his hands for silence this time, it takes notably longer for quiet to descend.

“I understand,” he says when he is eventually able to, “that this is rather short notice, but the decision – not undertaken lightly, you see – was made as soon as was feasibly possible, things being such as they are. Nonetheless, I have great faith in _all_ of you and your many undeniable talents, as so many of you are so well versed in producing passable, if not rather successful, results at the very last moment, according to your esteemed professors.”

Somewhere under his bushy beard and his twinkling eyes, Sirius realises, Dumbledore is _taking the mick._

“However, in light of the shortness of available time, we will be extending your Hogsmeade shopping excursions to include Thursday, as well as Wednesday, afternoon. But for now, if you have any queries or would like to volunteer to take part in the preparations for the Ball, including but not limited to decorations, then please see you House Prefect. Prefects; meetings will be held tomorrow morning in the usual place and at the usual time. Well then, that is all for now! Enjoy your night!”

Dumbledore returns to the professors table with what looks suspiciously like a laugh and a fondness in his eyes for _youthful hormones_ and _young love_ , while behind him the rest of the Hall erupts into chaos.

“Oh my God,” James is saying, bugged eyed and gaping like a fish, “Oh my God. Oh my _God_.”

Once again, Sirius cackles.

“This is great!” he says enthusiastically, “This is _perfect_ , this is _just what this holiday season needed_.”

“I wonder if he’s invited any other schools,” Remus says thoughtfully, “I mean, it’s the tradition, isn’t it? But….there’s no tournament. Tri-Wizard. So. But it _is_ interesting, what do you suppose he meant by ‘an incident of the most unfortunate kind’?”

“Do you think a kid died?” Peter’s eyes have gone as wide as his round, flushed face, “There are all these stories you know, about things and things and, like, how things happened and even one time this kid died, but they still didn’t close the school.”

“Rumours and malicious lies,” Sirius answers, “This is going to be _brilliant_. Think about it; a ball! A ball! Punch to spike! Dancing! Wormtail; _mistletoe_.”

He rubs his hands together, taking the expression gleeful to obscene levels.

“Actually this school does have a rather, well, colourful history. I mean, there’s Moaning Myrtle, for one. And all that business with the chamber of secrets - that none of us has ever heard of, of course.”

Remus often gets distracted by things that are not relevant, or rather _not directly conductive to the point at hand_ , and Sirius finds that he’s often called upon to yank him back into the present moment and the immediacy of _right now_. One day, Sirius fears, Remus will become so distracted by some trail of thought or interesting connotation that he will disappear from the present altogether and become forever lost to the back-passages of time where he will spend the rest of his days archiving the history that carried on without him. Sirius would be sad, if that happened. He grabs Remus’ shoulder and gives him a stern look.

“You two Nancy Drew’s are missing the point. Can’t you see what we’re talking about here? Moony, a _ball_. Think, man. Think of the opportunities. Oh, hello, James has gone purple.”

“Well,” Remus shrugs, “Only, it would have to have been a rather big thing, wouldn’t it, for them to postpone the Ball for so long? James, you look like you’re about to combust.”

James is the colour of poached beetroot. Unfortunately for all of them, they know exactly what’s coming. He makes a strangled sort of noise and then:

“Do you suppose……Lily….?”

“No.” Sirius says, firm but not without affection. He leans across the table and pats James consolably. He gets it – he _does_ – thwarted love and all that, it’s just that in his opinion, there are so many better ways of going about it than turning all shades of mauve and looking like an overcooked vegetable.

“But I’ll tell you what I _do_ think; I think mulled cider warms the soul, and they have barrels of it down at the Three Broomsticks.”

Sirius can feel it beginning already; the magic of the night ahead. It’s a peculiar kind of tingling in the air that feels like a spell in progress only _isn’t_ , because it’s them – the four of them – warm and flush against the cold night, gluttons of pleasure with bellies full and jokes aplenty, smelling of cinnamon and oranges and the crisp fresh snow. It’s their ready laughter and their affectionate, easy rapport that’s steadfast, like the sun that rises. It’s the way that Sirius can tell, even despite the ever-present Evans problem, that they’re _happy_ , all of them; happily drunk, happily christmassed, happily together because that’s what it means to have friends. Sirius knows he is a confusing mixture of extremes - swinging from extremely jubilant to extremely difficult at the drop of a hat – but it’s only because it all _means_ something, deep down in quiet places inside him that he doesn’t visit that often where all he really wants is for everyone to be happy. The Blacks are not happy people, as a rule. They’re proud and refined and elegant and distant and nothing ever displaces even a single hair on their heads. Sirius wants to be displaced. He wants to be messy and tussled and to lose buttons and fall off things and acquire bruises and trip over Peter’s shoes and to smell the change in Remus’ bones and to get carpet burns and marks on his skin from James falling asleep on his stomach, because that’s what it means to live. That’s what it means to be _loved_.

He swings his hand back around Remus' neck, smiles at them all, sparkling and dashing, and raises his mug of pumpkin juice.

“What say you, gentlemen? Hmm? Onward to glory, and one more for the road?”

And they must get it, too, because they all lift their mugs and salute each other over the strewn remnants of too many desserts.

~

Later, when they’re struggling back against freshly fallen snow and the sky is clear and littered with stars, Sirius thinks: _we’ve swapped places_. It’s late, but not _too_ late, as the pub kicked them out at eleven, but it’s still rife with the thrill of being out on a school night, of defying the rules, and of the challenge of sneaking back in without waking anyone up. Remus is defiantly sober and has assumed the responsibility of leading Sirius back to Hogwarts. His arm is around his shoulders, guiding him this way and that like the rudder of a ship. Sirius grabs his hip and squeezes.

“Yooou,” he says, slurring, just about able to make out Moony’s face in the darkness, “Have me, in your arms. Ridiculous, you know. S’like we swapped skin.”

Somewhere on his right, Remus is thinking too much about it. Sirius can’t much help that, so he pats Remus on the hip instead.

“S’ok. I don’t mind. You can have my skin. Just wash it, on the weekends, and no leaving it about.”

They’re back at the school now, gaining on the hidden door at the bottom of Gryffindor tower that they found back in third year. In front of them, James whips around and goes _shhhhh_.

“Even if you were making sense,” Remus is saying, helping Sirius to stand upright while Peter goes about poking the wrong bricks until he finds the right one, “I still wouldn’t understand you. It’s not like I’ve _asked_ for anything.”

Sirius doesn’t understand him. Remus gets these ideas, he remembers, that apparently come from nowhere and that mostly leave him all confused. Sirius has never understood _why_ he does it – who ever said anything about him asking for anything?! – but that’s Remus; always far away even when Sirius is tucked up under his shoulder, because he spends too much time thinking about all the things he thinks Sirius _hasn’t_ said, instead of what he actually has. Sometimes, Remus talks to him like he’s an encyclopaedia. Sirius could say _why hello, Moony, what’s for breakfast_ and Remus would answer _it’s not my fault that all the toast’s gone_ because for some reason, Remus thinks he needs interpreting all of the time.

Sirius still likes him, though. And it isn’t just because he’s got his skin.

“No,” he smiles in the starlight and says goodnight to the forest and to the day that has passed, “But still, there you go. You have it.”

 


	2. Tuesday

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It's day two of Christmas Week in Hogwarts. The students take part in Hogwarts Christmas Games, Sirius has been doing some thinking and James just doesn't believe him.

The lists are given out after morning classes.

Lilly Evans – Gryffindor’s eternal volunteer – has been making her slow and careful way around the ranks handing out pieces of parchment and appointing tasks from the first-years all the way to sixth, and is now hovering painfully close to Potter proximity. James has been picking at his jumper’s sleeve in anticipation and has accumulated a rather impressive collection of bits of black thread on his knee. Sirius thinks it would really help things right now if he were to kick James in the shins. He does so.

“Ow, you bugger.” James glares at him and rubs his offended shin.

“No time for that now,” Sirius chastises. He knows when he is being helpful, even if everyone else thinks otherwise. Behind his eyes he is still tired from the night before, but it is a satisfied sort of tired, the kind that says _well done you._ To be young, Sirius thinks, is to understand that tiredness is a sign that something exciting happened and you didn’t waste it, not a sorry mark of not getting enough sleep as if it were a bad thing.

“Pay attention; here comes your doom.”

Lilly comes to a stop just in front of Remus’ shoulder and surveys them all coolly over the top of her clip board.

“Good morning, boys,” she says and it’s aloof, but it’s not unkind. Sirius sometimes has to remind himself of that; Lilly isn’t _proud_ , like his parents are; she’s just proper. She’s much like Remus, in that way. Sirius finds that he sort of likes her _despite_ himself, which at times is rather amusing but at other times is _the worst thing ever_.

“Wotcher, Evans?” he blows on his hands and then looks up at her indifferently, “Was this inspired idea yours, then? The greenhouses in the middle of winter – brilliant, if your plan was to make us all sterile.”

Lily quirks a carefully pencilled eyebrow and stares at her clipboard like it’s the most fascinating thing she’s ever seen.

“I rather thought I’d be given some kind of award, Sirius, for ridding the world of any little mini Sirius’ to come.”

Sirius grins and thinks that Lilly’s awfully clever really, in this way, for a girl.

“Alas!” he exclaims, enjoying himself far too much, “If it weren’t for the hordes upon hordes of my bastard children already running around in the various institutions they’ve been sectioned to, you might have had a chance at success. Still, you may have protected later generations; my bullocks are _frozen_.”

James not-so-subtly digs him in the ribs and glares at him over the top of his glasses. It’s somehow colder in the greenhouses than it is outside, the glass walls acting as a kind of semi-translucent barrier stopping the almost-midday sun from melting away the frostiness of everything inside it, and James has to bend his head and peer over the top of his misty glasses if he wants to see anything. Every time someone breaths out, his glasses acquire more condensation. He looks, Sirius thinks, rather like a mad bus conductor. His hair is all sort of pokey-outey.

“The greenhouses,” Lily beings with the sort of resignation that say’s she explained this fifty million times already, “were _assigned_ to us as a starting position. I actually had nothing to do with it.”

“Never mind him,” James pipes up defiantly. He looks up at Lily, squinting, and tries to catch her eyes - or at least, Sirius thinks darkly, what he _thinks_ are her eyes. “Whatever parts of him _are_ frozen, he deserves it.”

An uncomfortable silence descends, during which James swallows nervously six times and stares up rather pathetically at Lily, who altogether forgets that she had a _purpose_ in coming over and spends the elongated seconds tapping the end of her quill on her clip board while looking thoughtful and awkward. The whole thing is awkward. Sirius, sitting next to James and wondering whatever happened to the carefree boy he once knew, is awkward. James’ eyes start watering and he blinks furiously to get it to stop, taking him from Mad Bus Conductor to Complete Raving Lunatic. Sirius wants to _do_ something, like poke James in one of his useless, watery, squinty eyes or _say_ something or do anything, really, to alleviate the awkwardness, but he doesn’t because he knows how rare these moments are for James; how each bumbling, awkward and embarrassing interaction keeps him going until the next one, where he will try to be less bumbling and awkward and embarrassing and fail, but still somehow want to keep going because, Sirius understands, each one is more time with Lily Evans, however awkward it is. James will keep collecting awkward moments like this until one day they will have become one long awkward narration, and then Lily will never again be able to say _I hardly know you; there’s nothing here_ because on that day, they will have _history_. Sirius knows this even before Remus’ hand comes and closes over his wrist, his long fingers wrapping around it and squeezing with just enough pressure. Sirius can feel his pulse slowing down. Energy surges out of him, and absentmindedly he turns his wrist up into press of Remus’ fingers.

“So…..er….” James scratches the back of his head and it is the act of a Brave Man, “What’s on the agenda this year then, eh?”

Lily shifts, like she’s suddenly remembered where she is. She tilts her head and beneath her well-drilled composure, Sirius realises that she’s blushing.

“Right,” she scans her clipboard again, “the four of you have been allocated – unsurprisingly – the hardest items on the scavenger hunt. Here: one copy each.”

Lily produces four lists from her pile of parchment and hands them over to Remus with a flourish. Sirius grabs one with his free hand but doesn’t look at it. Instead he grins at Lily.

“And _why’s_ that?” he asks, although he could have said much, much more. Lily hardly reacts.

“I won’t say,” She says coolly, “that it’s because you’re the best in the House at these sorts of spells. Instead I’ll say that it’s because you’re no good at braiding garlands of holly. Although,” she adds quickly, “I _would_ say that our best chance at solving some of these riddles is Remus. Wouldn’t want to deny that to the rest of the House, now, would I?”

“Gryffindor to win!” James says too loud, “That’s the school Christmas spirit.”

Sirius glances briefly at the clue for the first item on their list. He doesn’t normally go for _reading things beforehand_ , because it spoils the spontaneity of the moment, but he wants to see exactly what it is that the Gryffindor seventh years think Remus can do that _he_ can’t.

_Brave young voyagers who Christmas treats seek_

_Unbeknownst, came upon suspicious leek_

_Where gloomy depth hides mythical lore_

_And fair crusaders seen nevermore_

_There by shortest shadow cast their spell_

_To ward off dangers and deeds fell_

_Oh,_ Sirius’ brain says, _that’s what_.

“Rules are the same as always,” Lily is saying, “We have to get everything to Professor McGonagall by five, so try to get everything to the common room by four so we can all take stock.”

“Right-e-o,” James resists the impulse to salute, “You can count on us. All hands to the deck, and so forth.”

Lily eyes him the way Sirius imagines she eyes a test she’s been dreading.

“Where,” she says slowly as James makes faces at her like he’s about to interrupt and finish her sentence with _am I going to meet you before I take you to the Yule ball?_ “Is Peter?”

James can’t help that his face visibly falls because, Sirius thinks, he’s _un-practiced_.

“Oh…er….bit of a to-do after History of Magic. He’s……going to be right back.”

Peter’d been woken up that morning by five howlers from his mother, each increasingly louder and increasingly more incoherent than the last, and had been given special permission to Floo her after classes to see what the fuss was all about - but none of them were about to admit that to _anyone_ outside of themselves, because Marauders do not tattle on each other. Their secrets will follow them to their graves.

“Right, well,” Lily’s beginning to look a little flustered now, Sirius notices, and there’s something oddly reassuring about it. “Be sure to……fill him in! I’d best be off. More….lists.”

Lily coughs and then straightens up, turns on her heal, and walks away with effortless dignity and it’s only then, when Remus lets go of his wrist, that Sirius realises that he didn’t interrupt them even _once_.

“You know,” he says, although he doesn’t have a clue why, “I haven’t been in this greenhouse in _years_. I wonder if my old lighter’s still here.”

Sirius has fond memories of that lighter.

Just then the alarm goes off – the signal to everyone that Hogwarts Christmas Games has commenced for another year. It’s a sound composed of bells jingling and reindeer prancing and log fires and distant carolling and is, Sirius thinks with a frown, almost as mental as the clue he’d just read. But then what would Christmas be, he adds, if everyone behaved rationally? _Boring_ , and Sirius is never in the mood for that.

“Forth, little Christmas cherubs,” he says jumping up from the bench and then pulling Remus and James up after him, “I say we split into two teams as usual. Remus and I will take the first twenty, and James can go see if Pete’s mum’s eaten him alive.”

“ _Where gloomy depth hides mythical lore, fair crusaders seen nevermore_ ,” Remus reads from his list, “I think maybe that’s the lake. Shall we head there first?”

“Forth unto adventure!” Sirius can feel his blood heating up once more, stirring into excitement by the prospect of action! spells! climbing on things! and hunter-gathering, “have you brought the picnic basket? It’s not empty is it?”

Remus gives him a very dry, serious sort of look.

“I always come bearing snacks.” He says. Sirius sort of wants to tickle him. He settles for clapping him manfully on the back instead.

“Of course! Right – onward!”

They file out of the greenhouse with the rest of Gryffindor, each student entrusted with a particular task to win them the Christmas Games. Sirius remembers their first time playing as he skips forward and holds the door open gallantly for some tittering fifth year – the cheering, and all that mud. Outside the afternoon is just beginning and Sirius feels the sun warming the roots of his hair.

“If you need us, you know how!” he calls after James who heads off in the direction of the Tower. Behind him, Remus is completely absorbed with the list; a quill has appeared in his hand and he is marking the parchment and making little notes. He’s already got ink on his fingers. Sirius watches as he nearly walks into a tree, notices it at the last second, wobbles unsteadily on his feet and then stares at it as if to say _who put this tree here_? Sirius giggles.

_Mad old bloke, that Moony_ Sirius thinks, and then runs to catch up with him.

~

“It’s…no, wait, wait….there’s definitely something here……or possibly, _there_.”

“ _Five high in mists rising, lies something quite surprising_ certainly _could_ be the viaducts Sirius, but it could also be any of the other bridges or even…….the Prefects bathroom. Which is on the fifth floor, and contains _baths_.”

“Don’t be ridiculous. It’s…….right _here_. I just need to get a proper hold on it.”

“How can you be sure? We’re not even certain what we’re looking for.”

“Because it’s……… _here_ , it’s like…….Moony d’you know, I think it’s moving.”

“Whatever do you mean?”

“Well it’s sort of like…….slippery, you know. I think I have it, and then it slides away and I have to find it again.”

“I saw the Ravenclaw team heading for the Prefects bathroom not ten minutes ago. I just think that makes more sense.”

“For Merlin’s sake, Moony, it’s the bonus item. They’re not going to hide the _bonus item_ in the sodding _prefect’s bathroom_. It’s too easy!”

“Sirius _don’t climb up the pillars_! This stone is ancient it could collapse at any moment. I don’t think we should even be up here. It’s getting dark.”

“But it’s sort of going…….up! Remus, it’s up! Give me a boost.”

“I…..no. Oh, fine! Merlin, be careful.”

“Shit! Catch it! Catch it!”

“Ommmf. Oh, that hurt. Here. Please don’t drop anything else.”

“Can’t exactly do this without my _wand_ , now, can I?”

“You shouldn’t be doing any of it at all; climb back down for pity’s sake.”

“No….it’s……..so close, it’s……..oh shit, there it goes!”

“Sirius, wait!”

“Ahhhhhhhhhhh!”

“Oh god, oh god, oh god, oh god……”

There is a flash of light and a boom. It goes: booooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooom.

“Ahhhhhhhhhhhh saints in heaven protect me! Elbereth Gilthoniel!”

“No, wait. Sirius it’s ok! I think……I think….Sirius you were right! You’ve found it!”

“Mercy on my poor heart, what’s that? Oh, of _course_ I was right!”

“Come down here and take a look, it’s…..it’s….”

“Ooooof, that’s a long day way down! Woah. What were you saying? My, don’t _you_ look mental.”

“Sirius, shut up! Look….”

“Huh? Oh. Ohhhhhhhhhh.”

“Beautiful.”

“Wow.”

“Of course! _Fir crown of nights gaze: luminous noble and inert blaze_ \- the star on top of a Christmas tree!”

“It’s an _actual star_ , Moony.”

“Well……….Dumbledore.”

“Say it. Come on! Say it – who’s your daddy? Who’s _everyone’s_ daddy?”

“You are frighteningly good at this.”

“And you’re just frightening. Still, I suppose you do your best.”

“Answer me _this_ then, clever clogs…”

“What?”

“How do we get it back to the others?”

“Uhhhhh…….”

~

Lily Evans has turned Gryffindor common room into a well-drilled conveyor of productivity. It now resembles Santa’s workshop. Students swarm through it, carrying things to and fro and generally being helpful as they prepare to take their offerings to the Christmas alter that is Minerva Mcgonagall’s desk before the deadline. There is a peaceful, occupied sort of air to it - that is, until Remus and Sirius come bursting through the portal door and spill the last of the items that Gryffindor need onto the floor, upsetting a tray of peppermint sweets.

“Citizens!” Sirius exclaims, throwing his arms out wide, “I have returned! And I bring you light itself! Behold – the bonus item of this year’s hunt; the Christmas star!”

The star trails in behind him, floating gently through the air at the tether of Remus’ wand. It’s genuinely astounding – the whole spectrum of light, shimmering in one constantly pulsating, swirling, concentrated mass of reacting particles and tiny, circling bonds; hot in the core but radiating cool, twinkling bursts of white – and after a somewhat breathless, reverent silence, the room bursts into applause. Sirius grins through the noise and takes several bows; he’s so _good_ at this. Remus, he knows, has already slunk off somewhere into the shadows of the room, but Sirius wasn’t named for the brightest star in the night sky for no reason. He radiates _too_ , just like the tiny star that’s now floating above his head. He burns and expels brightness and the people, well, they love to see it. Many of them would say that it’s all on him; that he _needs_ the attention and that he does these things to ensure that he gets it, but Sirius knows it’s the other way around. He burns _for_ them; every day he pours all of his energy into trying to create something beautiful to look at and live through and later remember. Well, maybe not _every_ day. Sometimes he burns too hot. But most days. Most days he likes to think that he _tries_ to show them that he’s grateful, because this is the House that accepted him. One day, they will understand this. One day, when Hogwarts has ended and their lives have moved them on and he’s being tragic somewhere – like the basement of a pub, or possibly the Vault – they will remember that back in the day, that mad old Sirius Black brought them a real live star at Christmas time.

The clapping dies down, and Sirius lets it go. The star floats into the middle of the room and shines there as the students crowd round to admire it. Lily is checking her master list with Remus’ help.

“Right, that’s everything from the scavenger hunt……gingerbread houses, check……holly wreaths, check…..tree decorations….those are for later….and…how much money was raised from the carolling?”

“This says ‘300 sickles’.”

“Oh, excellent.”

Sirius feels the room moving; people conversing and mulling around; changing patterns of energy orbiting around him in waves as the centre of gravity shifts. They’ve moved on from him. This often happens – one minute they’re looking at him and then the next they’re not and he’s no longer in the middle – but whenever it does, it leaves him feeling a bit lost. He strolls over to the fire and sits down on a vacant chair. When he’s alone but not _alone_ , it feels odd, like he should be doing something; playing cards or chess or talking. He doesn’t know how to sit alone in a room full of people, or what to do when _everyone_ is busy with something else. It makes him feel like he should leave and come back later when everyone is ready for him again. If he’s going to be alone then he should be properly alone; it’s always best that way. He thinks about getting up, but doesn’t. Where would he go? Sirius feels like something is holding him back, like he is waiting for something, but he doesn’t exactly know what. For someone to see him? He knows no one will. When he’s quiet, a sort of shadow falls over him, and people forget that he’s there. He should _move_.

Sometimes, when he can’t help himself, Sirius worries that if he’s ever too quiet and still for too long then the whole host of dark and unmentionable thing’s that he’s spent most of his life running from will catch back up with him.

“Sirius, can you give us a hand with these toy soldiers? They won’t exactly…..heed to. Ouch.”

Sirius smiles. He swoops up – dashing, heroic, always saving the day – orders the toys into formation and then, when Lily is finally ready to go, leads them off in long, marching lines out of Gryffindor tower and towards McGonagall’s office, kicking his knees up and saluting everyone he passes and calling out _hup to men!_ loud enough so that it drowns out all the other noises in his head and he promptly forgets whatever it was that he was thinking about.

Remus, though. That bit doesn’t go anywhere: Remus _always_ sees him.

~

Hufflepuff win the Christmas Games.

“It was whatshisface Diggory, you know – terribly brilliant at everything, but awfully polite about it? Tweed and riding boots, and all that. He raised nearly _two hundred_ _gallons_ , they say on nothing but pure charm and persuasion alone. Apparently if you’re nice, people will just give you things.”

James found out from the grapevine of the student body; those whispering, curious bastards from all four houses who just seem to know _everything_ , but at the very least will respectfully share it with each other. Sirius feels a little disappointed not to win after having birthed a motherfucking _star_ , but he can’t be too upset. He’s too well fed _and_ – he can’t lie – he’d had the whole school at his finger tips when he’d walked into the Great Hall at dinner with a real live star floating above his head. Everyone had gone wild for him as he’d charmed it up to the top of the magnificent Christmas tree. Even McGonagall had looked impressed. That had been good. All night, people had been coming up to him and begging for his tale – which, naturally, he’d taken upon himself to improve _some_ small parts of, for effect – and he’d talked and talked until their faces shone with admiration and more than one buxom lass had fainted. Well, not really, only it was _like_ that. No Viking could have done any better.

Sirius and James are having a cheeky fag in the clock tower courtyard before lights out, having sneaked off earlier from the after-party, and it’s a good end to a good day. A house elf from the kitchens waddles past them still dressed in one of the costumes the first-years made for the Games; all bells and badly-glued glitter. He nods serviceably at them, ignores the fags, and then jingles away trailing tinsel. Sirius watches him go. _Now there’s a crisis waiting to happen_ , he thinks: _the revolution is coming. Doom!_

“So who are you going to ask to the Yule ball then?” James exhales a drag out from the corner of his mouth and flicks fag ash onto the ground by his foot.

Sirius shrugs and looks up into the night sky. He brings his own fag to his lips but doesn’t inhale, letting the smoke trail off into the distance as he tries very hard to ignore James’ question. _I don’t want to talk about it_ , he thinks. Unfortunately, not even the great James Potter can read minds.

“What, no one?” James presses unaware, “Come off it, Padfoot! Not like you.”

Sirius shrugs again. It’s a stubborn shrug – defiant – the kind that he hopes James will know means _leave it alone, Potter._

“Don’t much feel like it, if you have to know.” He adds for good measure. It doesn’t work.

“But you were full of it yesterday,” James continues, “Kept saying it was the _best idea ever_. Changed your tune?”

Sirius sighs. If he’d known the second Spanish inquisition would happen, he just might have stayed inside and foregone the fag.

“No. Prongs, I _like_ parties. You know I do. And, by the way, we should be putting our heads together to come up with how we’re going to have some _fun_ at this ball, not wasting our time whinging about _dates_. You know, frogs down dresses and vodka in the punch, and so forth.”

“I’m all for the vodka,” James looks painfully thoughtful, and Sirius doesn’t much like it, “but seriously Pads – I’m asking Lily. I’m asking Lily and if by some miracle she agrees I’m going to show her a _nice time_. No frogs.”

“Bah! You’re boring; I don’t know you.”

“Well I know _you_ ,” James has this determined sort of look about him, like he does when he thinks Sirius has been hiding the latest from Zonko’s from him or hoarding all of the chocolate, “There’s no way you’d pass up the chance to cop a feel down the back of some lovely feminine figure.”

Sirius is getting impatient with him.

“I don’t _need_ the Yule ball to do that.” He barks.

The thing is: taking someone to the Yule ball isn’t like feeling someone up on the stairs of the Tower or in the back of the Restricted section, Sirius thinks. Taking someone to the Yule ball is like this kind of formal declaration; it’s letting someone - and by proxy everyone _else_ \- know that you’re interested in _them_ and not just what’s beneath their shirt. Sirius has actually given it some thought. It’s matching your boutonnière with their corsage and slow dancing and dressing fancy because it’s _nice_ to dress fancy and go out together, like parents do. Yesterday, Sirius had imagined it would be the four of them gallivanting around the dance floor, playing tricks and stealing kisses and swooning ladies and quaffing great quantities of ale – only there comes a point in a man’s life where loosing various amphibians at social gatherings gets replaced by something else far more worrisome and you realise that you’re not thirteen any more. Like looking at someone and thinking for the first time _actually it might be kind of nice_. James would be there with Lily, wanting to get it right because if he did, then it actually might be kind of nice. Sirius hadn’t meant to think _it might be kind of nice_ , but it was too late now.

“There isn’t any one I would want to go with, anyway.”

Sirius hates, hates, _hates_ lying to James, because what’s the point in having a best mate if you can’t talk shit like this over with him?

“What about Parkinson?”

“That trollop? No thanks.”

“Paisley Thomas, then? Lily likes her.”

“No.”

“Donna E’s always had a bit of a thing for you, and she’s a terribly good looking lass.”

“For Merlin’s sake, no!”

“Why not? What’s wrong with any of them?”

“Nothing’s wrong with them. I just have no desire to go to the Yule Ball with them.”

At least, Sirius thinks, _that’s_ not a lie. James seems to recognise that and he backs off, giving Sirius one last look of great scepticism. They smoke for a while in silence, watching the scenery move around them. Hogwarts at night is a rather eerie place, with all these shadows that don’t seem to be attached to anything sort of moving about the place. The corridors seem narrower, the towers taller and always the night keener then Sirius ever remembers them. Fresh snow clouds form in dark swirls above their heads and Sirius thinks: _doooooom._ He’s been a doomed man for a while now, he realises. He sucks his fag dry and flicks it out of the cloister. James catches his eye and puts his end out on the stone wall.

“I just don’t believe you” James says, shooting Sirius a Look that says nothing will convince him otherwise, _“doesn’t want to go with anyone_ – I just don’t believe you.”


	3. Wednesday

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Day three of Hogwarts' Christmas Week see's a quidditch match to end all quidditch matches and what it's like to be so, so drunk as Remus does something unexpected.
> 
> P.S - naming characters is hard, especially when you only need them to feature very briefly in order to move the plot along, so maybe I gave up and used the names of some famouses instead? In no way affiliated, no profits made, full disclaimers etc etc.

There’s twelve minutes left and they’re down by ten.

Sirius feels the icy wind whip through his hair. His face is basically numb and he can’t feel his fingers anymore. He’s perched more _above_ his broom than on it, his free hand gripping the jagged bend of his Nimbus like it’s been frozen into the wood and it’s probably just as well, because the rest of him is without gravity, swooping and darting through the air with all the majesty of a bird of prey - at any given moment just a few seconds away from certain death - and Sirius is _loving it_. The battle is epic: Gryffindor versus Slytherin; good versus evil in a classic clash of skill, athleticism and destiny. The chips are down and the peril is real and Sirius feels that it is _closecloseclose_ but not close enough! For justice _will_ prevail. The righteous will rise triumphant! He knows this because they – his teammates and him - are the heroes, because it’s Christmas time and it’s the last game of 1976, and therefore they are predetermined to win. 

Beneath him, the crowd roars.

Slytherin have possession of the quaffle, but not for long. McCormack is a fearless keeper, seeing no danger but only points, and she defends the goal hoops like a lioness protecting her cubs. The quaffle spins, slow and sluggish, and Sirius spies Frank Lampard heading for it. Faster than he can say For England And Saint George, he and Kingsley have the same idea – like lightening between them, striking genius – and he darts for a bludger. What Sirius lacks compared to Kingsley’s brute strength he makes up for in agility, and between the two of them there is no hope for the enemy. He dives low, gliding effortlessly between Slytherin players - fast enough to break out in flames! - skirts the edge of a spectator tower, billowing the tapestries, and then closing in on the bludger he readies his batting arm, breathes deep, and then strikes with perfect timing. He feels the force of the impact rippling up his arm, muscles contracting and bones knitting, and it feels _good_. He looks up to see Kingsley meet the bludger at the other end and direct it with a mighty power unknown to any other school boy _ever_ towards Frank. The bludger hits its mark and Frank is thrown from his broom just in time for James to grab the quaffle. Sirius can _feel_ the noise from the crowd resonating in his veins as Frank hurtles towards the pitch and crashes into the springy grass.

Slytherin’s boo, but not loud enough to drown out the noise of impending victory from the Gryffindor crowd.

James has the quaffle tucked under his arm and Sirius knows that this is it: _soclose soclose soclose_ he can practically taste it – they will drink deep from the cup of glory tonight! But for the time being he still has a job to do, and so he lifts up the end of his broom and shoots over to where James is gaining fast on the goals. He’ll defend and Kingsley will attack, and then James’ll secure their win. Jessica Ennis and Mo Farah are quick to flank them, hoping to force them this way and that or nudge them from their brooms, but Sirius and James are the best flyers in the whole _school_ and the evil of Slytherin stands no chance against them! They don’t even need to look at each other to know what the other is thinking: wordlessly they move in perfect tandem, up, down, left and right in fierce, inspired zig-zags. Sirius defends James from a bludger that quickly returns, courtesy of Kingsley, to knock Jessica into a tail spin and they lose her. They tip back into a horizontal climb and go up and up and up so high that they leave Mo behind and then disappear into the clouds. Sirius can feel tiny little crystals of ice forming in his hair and on the end of this nose as he looks around at the swell of grey, listening to James cackling madly – and then, knowing that no one below them could possibly have any idea where they are - they get into position and in three – two – one – they hold their breaths and then drop into a ferocious nose-drive, descending like two arrows from the Gods themselves, hurtling down and down and down until they reappear suddenly out of the clouds as if from nowhere to the wonderment of the crowd, allowing James to shoot the quaffle from his arm before anyone from Slytherin has even registered that they’re back. The quaffle slinks beautifully through the hoop, the score board dings and rings its bell and then somehow above all the noise and whoops and gasp of sheer astonishment, a voice rings clear:

“Kathy Griffin catches the snitch! Gryffindor wins!”

The crowd goes _nuts_.

Sirius and James whip round to see the redhead holding the golden snitch up in one hand, showing it off to her team and to her House. Her face is alive with triumph, and it’s more contagious than the flu. They glide over to her, cheering, fist pumping, crashing into their teammates and knocking their heads together: a quidditch salute of victory! fraternity! glory! They grab each other’s hands, shoulders, heads, arms and necks and squeeze and tussle and shake and scream into each other’s ears until it hurts. They hold hands and raise their arms up together at the crowd, filing into one long line, and they let the adoration heap upon them. Sirius feels the stretch in his chest and shoulders and he _never wants it to end_. He _lives_ for this. All of Gryffindor are on their feet; jumping up and down on their seats and throwing their hats and scarves into the air and screaming like Christmas has come early and they’ve all been given mansions to live in. Sirius breaths it in; victory, heroism, legend, legacy, beauty and success and _love_. This is why he loves quidditch – it isn’t just something that one of you gets on his own, like a prize or a good mark in an exam. This victory belongs to _all_ of them. They _share_ it - himself, his teammates and House, all - and there’s nothing like it in the whole world.

And even if everyone else thinks it’s because he’s a show-off, Sirius knows better.

~

“We’re ace, we’re ace, we’re ace!”

James says with a high-five for each of them. He throws himself onto his bed and props his head up on his many dishevelled pillows and smiles smugly, crossing his arms behind his head.

“What are we?” he asks the only person listening to him properly – Peter – with a tone that suggests he is all too pleased with himself.

Dutifully, Peter answers: “Ace.”

“That’s right, Pete my good man. And why are we ace? Because we’re _Gryffindors_ , and tonight’s our night!”

They’ve been ridding this high since the match, and with the after-party of all after-parties shortly to commence they’ll be riding it for much, much longer. Sirius is arranging his face in the mirror – hair; check, scruffy collar; check, cheek bones; sharp, eyes; irresistible. He wants a _good_ night; to celebrate their victory properly, to be one with the brotherhood of Gryffindor and ring in the small hours of the morning with song and feasting and he feels……..well, sort of _jittery_. Like he wants to jump on a broom and play the match again. Like he wants to go Padfoot and run round in circles, or to get on his bike and ride storm clouds. He can’t stop jiggling his feet or his knees. It can only mean one thing.

“Prongs, what did you do with that vodka? I need to _dance_.”

Dancing is _everything_. Well - dancing and getting hideously drunk at least spells fun times! and Sirius is practically gagging for it.

“Remus hid it in his trunk. He thinks I don’t know but ah-ha! I know all, for I am _ace_.”

“I thought we were all ace….” Remus gets up reluctantly and fetches the vodka from the trunk under his bed and Sirius doesn’t like the way his face goes all droopy, like he’s sad for no reason, because there really _isn’t_ one. Sirius wants him to have fun; sure, parties are not strictly Moony’s thing, but that’s only because he hasn’t really _tried_ to enjoy them yet. Not properly; not without some kind of internal crisis first followed by lots of hiding in cupboards. Just once, Sirius would like to see Remus smile without having to think about it before hand.

“And so we are! And you not just because you saved the vodka,” Sirius walks over to Remus and slings an arm across his shoulders, looking down at him kindly, “Who knows what sort of Prongsian fate it might have ended up in if you hadn’t the foresight to keep it safe.”

Remus crooks his neck and looks up at Sirius and –there! – Sirius sees a little wiggle creep into Remus’ face, just ever so slightly lightening his features. It’s coming – it’s _definitely_ coming – even if Remus is resisting as best he can – _it’s almost here_ , Sirius thinks, getting excited and feeling strangely bubbly in his stomach, although that’s probably the anticipation of the night head, and he grins hungrily as the corners of Remus’ mouth twinge and then – yes! – Remus smiles, warm and crooked like sunlight breaking on waves.

The thing about Remus’ smiles is; each one is like a personal victory. There’s this immense kind of satisfaction to seeing one and thinking _I did that_. Sirius imagines it must be very close to how Michelangelo felt after the Sistine chapel. He gives Remus a quick squeeze at the place where his rib cage meets his shoulder blade and he jumps up and down a little on the spot, grinning like a madman.

Sometimes Sirius thinks: _sod it; it’s too exciting; I am eternally twelve; good for me!_

Remus hands him the vodka and Sirius stops jumping. He holds the bottle in his hand and it’s _heavy_. The crisp seal is untouched.

“Did you want to take it downstairs?” Peter asks from his bed across the room. Sirius still hasn’t removed his arm.

“D’you know,” he says, pointing the vodka bottle at them all like some teachers might point a pen, “There’s this quaint little muggle custom I thought we might try – it’s called _pre-loading_. Meant to be quite the favourite pastime.”

 “Oh, I’ve heard of _that_!” James leans forward, suddenly full of energy and eyes all a-twinkle with wickedness and sometimes Sirius just really, _really_ loves him.

“Hold on – isn’t that to save on money at expensive bars?” Remus, as he often does when it comes to things like _fun_ and _lads_ and particularly _alcohol_ has completely missed the point, but at least he looks all kinds of squishable when he gets a bit confused and quirks an eyebrow and wrinkles up his forehead, “Or for keeping off the cold, you know……..when you’re forced into wintery streets scantily glad because you can’t check your coat at the club, or whatever.” He attempts a shifty look, as if to say _not that I’ve done that_ in a way to imply that maybe he has, and Sirius thinks that maybe he’s trying to tell a joke. The thing about Remus’ jokes, though, unlike his smile, is that they lack one important thing: delivery. But, he _tries_. 

Poor soul.

Sirius lets go of him just long enough to unscrew the top of the vodka bottle as Peter and James crowd in. Someone puts a record on and the screech of an electric guitar fills the room, providing the all-important atmosphere. Sirius holds the open bottle out into the middle of them.

“To keeping off the cold!” he toasts and winks at Remus.

“To keeping off the cold!” they chime back and Sirius pours the vodka into cups that have appeared in their hands as if by magic, or as is more likely; _Remus_.

“We shall have fun!” Sirius tells him, and tilts the end of Remus’ cup until it bumps against his lips.

“Drink! There’s a good werewolf, is it spicy? Can you taste the chilly?”

Remus sneezes and then looks across at Sirius with watery eyes. Sirius can’t help but laugh.

“Good! Excellent! Look; you can take pictures.”

Remus’ face brightens at that, and Sirius knows then that all the sins of the vodka laced with chilly powder – both now and future – are forgiven.

“I do like taking pictures…..” Remus might have said more, but Sirius gets the impression that _but only because_ is about to quickly follow and he doesn’t want that for tonight. He claps Remus on the shoulder instead and cuts him short.

“Of course! Document the chaos,” he says instead, hoping to spare Remus all _three_ potential seconds of complete agony, “Now, help me pick a dog collar…..should I go leather? Spikes? Oooooooh……chain!”

~

The small hours are breaking, outside snow is falling thickly and the dark is deep; deep like dungeons and deep like holes in the ground and deep like….what was he thinking? Sirius looks around him. Gryffindor common room _looks_ empty – but! Sirius knows that can be misleading. Tricky like that, is it. The thing about being drunk – or being _this_ drunk, at least – is that you can only really see what’s going on right in front of you. Everything else becomes tragically _faded_. You can’t see what’s happening to your right or to your left or over there in that corner or hey! – what’s that, who’s that – hello, formless blob! It’s like, Sirius thinks, you only have enough _brain_ left for what you’re doing or who you’re talking to _right now_. The next morning, you never think _and the snow was coming down like Mildred Hubbard’s inhibitions and the fire was kindling to a low ember and Maud Moonshine and Enid Nightshade were talking intimately in the window seat as I looked around to remember where the hell I was_ because you aren’t even aware that you have a _nose_ , never mind who else is in the room with you. Tomorrow, Sirius won’t even remember that he’d had this conversation with himself, because it’s like that; being this drunk.

James, though. Earlier on in the night – sometime between it getting dark and it getting _dark_ – James Magnificence Potter, riding the eternal wave of his quidditch glory – champion of Gryffindor! Prince of Hogwarts! – had downed an entire glass of Ruben’s surprise punch mix, said _if it’s not tonight, It’ll be never_ – which didn’t make a lot of sense, buy hey-ho all in the Spirit – and had marched strangely confidently and determinedly towards one Lily Evans who – horror of all horrors and shock of all shocks – had actually said _yes_. Sirius wishes he could remember exactly what James had said – something like _look here_ , he thinks, but who knows now – but Lily would have been a fool to turn down the star of the quidditch team on the very night of their greatest victory. Which is perhaps why she didn’t. But anyway; they actually agreed to go to the Yule Ball together. _That_ Sirius will remember tomorrow. All bets are officially off.

Sirius wanders around for a bit, somewhat disoriented and not really going anywhere but unable to think any longer; just waiting, really, for something to happen. Eventually, he stumbles onto the corner settee – he _thinks_ – and there’s a wall there so at least he knows he can’t go any further. Someone’s there, on the settee, sitting down. Sirius can’t tell who it is from this angle, but he can’t imagine it would matter all that much. He flops over the back of the settee and lands face down in his or her lap.

Oh, hello, it’s Moony.

“Still up?” Sirius asks, only it comes out stppl pmfp?

“I’m sorry; I don’t speak muffled trouser leg.”

Sirius gets that. He rolls around in what he hopes is a smooth, suave kind of way but given that he is all elbows at the moment and that Remus appears to be nothing but squishy human-werewolf-boy flesh, is probably less so. Sirius looks up at him. Is he drunk? Is Moony drunk? Has he had _fun_? Sirius can’t tell. He thinks: _probably not_. All he really knows is how drunk _he_ is. The room hasn’t stopped spinning since his tumble into the settee, and Sirius thinks it properly never will.

“Ahhh, Moony. Moony, Moony, Moony.”

Remus is familiar and soft and all sorts of things that Sirius can’t remember right now. He remembers just enough, though, to keep his head where it is and not to wriggle too much and he looks across at the blurry distance and its senseless shapes and colours.

“D’you know James? Yes, course you do. He’s gone, you know. Gone, gone, gone. Even Pete. Gone. Curse of the Yule Ball. I think they left together. Smug bastards. Still, such is love. Not that it ever did anything for anyone.”

Remus’ hand falls over his neck and Sirius shrugs it off. He can’t _touch_ too much; it feels funny, because Remus is there but he’s _not really there_ , at least not for Sirius.

“Aren’t you happy for them?”

Is Remus cross? Disapproving? If only Sirius could _see_ properly - not just with his eyes but also with his head - he might be able to tell. He has no idea what Remus looks like right now; is he leaning back into the settee cushions with the languor expression of a good hedonist, or sitting taut and ridged, wishing he was anywhere else in the world?

“’Course,” Sirius answers him, “Hail the conquering heroes! They have their _dates_ and all is well, but not for me.”

Sirius reckons he might be a bit cold and a bit sad. That’s the vodka of course; happy and warm going in but cold and sad in the aftermath. He shivers a little bit and begins to think longingly of bed. But Remus’ leg is warm against his cheek and he can’t bring himself to leave it just yet. He has to take his liberties where he can, he thinks.

“Why not for you, Sirius?” Remus is asking him. It’s a complicated question - when you’re this drunk - because you don’t really know _why_ things are, just that they _are_ , and even less how to explain that. Sirius makes an attempt anyway, because he is nothing if not brave.

“’Cos. Thwarted. I am thwarted by love! It’s sad, but that’s the vodka.”

“Whatever do you mean? I’m sure there are hordes of girls who would go with you.”

“Yes – but! Not the point. It’s _not possible_. So; no date. I don’t want a _date_. Horrible.”

“Well, what do you want?”

That’s a difficult question to answer when you’re this drunk, too. Remus’ questions are always difficult; it’s unfair of him to ask them when Sirius is struggling to get from one thought to another. Thinking, when you’re this drunk, is like wadding through treacle. It’s much less _ah-ha!_ eureka moments and much more _what’s that?_ and feeling damp and mysteriously sticky. Sirius thinks _I want to throw up and also stop spinning and maybe not feel things anymore because it’s confusing and when it’s not confusing it’s just pointless and that’s sad and also I want to eat some toast and sleep because Merlin, I’m so, so drunk._

He says: “I want up.” and Remus helps him negotiate his arms and legs into a sitting position, and that’s a bit better because at least now there’s less spinning.

“I don’t think you need be upset, you know,” Remus says kindly or helpfully or patronisingly or possibly just uninterestedly, “If you wanted a date, well, you could get one. And if you don’t then you don’t have to, do you?”

He just doesn’t get it.

“You don’t get it,” Sirius tells him, only it’s not exactly fair because he knows _why_ Remus doesn’t get it; because he’s Remus, and Remus is Unbothered By Such Things, “ _You_ – you wouldn’t know, would you? Not your fault, but still doesn’t change _facts_. You can’t know what it’s like to want something you can’t have.”

Did he just say that?

“You – Eunuch. I brand you. Forever.”

Remus _looks_ , like something Sirius should know or should recognise. He feels that Remus is cross; that somewhere a line was just crossed that should never have been crossed - only Sirius doesn’t really _know_ because it’s just so difficult trying to piece it all together. Remus has moved though; he wasn’t this close before. Sirius feels hot, like he does when he’s had too much to drink, and he’s just about able to register Remus’ hand pulling on his wrist. Something is happening. Something is definitely happening but _what is it_? Is it in his head? When you’re this drunk, like he is, sometimes you get the impression that something is happening that isn’t really, because it’s coming from inside you and not from the things going on around you. Is that what’s happening? Sirius really, _really_ wishes he knew.

“You’re so….wrong!” Remus is saying to him, and it feels like when someone drags their nails over a chalk board or rubs two wads of cotton wool together, “You think you’re so sure but you just……you have no idea!”

And then Remus kisses him.

Later, Sirius won’t remember what it felt like. He won’t remember that it was dry first and then wet; he won’t remember Remus grabbing hold of his stomach or the funny little strangled noise he made or that he heard Remus make back, too; he won’t remember that it felt dizzy and a bit scruffy and then tingly and that it went on for much, much longer that he ever could have thought. He won’t remember that it was messy and raw and just a little bit aggressive or even that he didn’t exactly want it to stop. But Remus kissed him, and then ran away.

Sirius will remember _that_.


	4. Thursday

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Yule Ball preperations are in full swing, magical suggestion is just cruel, Remus doesn't say anything and Sirius is trying.

Hogsmead looks like a picture postcard.

The crooked houses and shops are lumbered with fat piles of whiter-than-white snow; paths have been carefully and lovingly etched out from the ice on the cobbled pavements; the Christmas lights sparkle in bright patterns of every colour, twinkling off the shop windows and casting their colourful shadows on the snow and the air is thick with various smells like roasting chestnuts, peppermint and rich, spicy mulled wine. The cold makes scarves and coats and gloves even more inviting and there is a brass band and carollers outside Madame Puddifoots. Stalls litter the streets selling hot drinks and nearly every kind of food covered in chocolate and Hogwarts students mill this way and that, making their Christmas and Yule Ball arrangements.

Sirius is hovering outside Austin Florists, smoking a fag as he waits for James and Peter who are inside facing the herculean task of picking the right kind of flowers for tomorrow. He doesn’t mind all that much; he likes the fresh air and he’s eaten three turkey rolls and four kinds of things covered in chocolate already and it’s all doing wonders for his hangover. There’s a bustling, contented kind of feeling to it and Sirius finds that he likes watching the people going this way and that, carrying wrapped presents and holly garlands and still smelling of oranges and cinnamon. They walk to and fro in pairs and groups, talking about their plans and laughing at each other’s jokes, and they look happy. Sirius takes a drag and then turns and looks back towards the shop. Austin’s has a magnificent tree in their display – almost as grand as the one back in the Hall – and Sirius looks at all the different kinds of ornaments and wonders about _blue_ – is it a very Christmassy colour? Would they have blue flower arrangements inside?

Remus hasn’t come. He’s on Yule Ball duty. Sirius hasn’t seen much of him. They were both quiet at breakfast.

When Peter and James finally emerge, grasping tightly wrapped parcels close to their chests, they look more exhausted than triumphant. It’s hard being a bloke and having to deal with flowers, especially when the stakes are so high. Sirius throws away his cigarette butt and quickly glances at his father’s old pocket watch. It’s nearly quarter past four.

“Well, that was a nightmare,” Peter says, looking gingerly down at the parcel in his hands, “I have no idea what I’ve just bought. Have you ever heard of a chrysanthemum? Apparently they’re making a comeback.”

“These are the mysterious you must prevail against for the sake of the fairer sex, Wormtail,” Sirius answers him with a fond smile, “But never fear – get it right and the rewards will be plentiful. Boobs, and such.”

“It’s like trying to learn a whole other language,” James chimes in, “I think it must be terrifying to be a girl. There’s just _so much_ to it. Matching ribbons to crepe paper! What a headache - it must take up _hours_.”

Sirius has never given much thought to the condition of womanhood but being a girl, he thinks, is basically just worrying all the time about everything. Whenever he worries about something, he sometimes wonders what his mother might say about it – if he were ever stupid enough to consider asking her (if she would even _listen_ to him). There’s just something about mothers that’s meant to take all the worry away, because they have so much practice at dealing with it. But he doesn’t have that option any more. He remembers once, when he was very little, his uncle had told him that today’s muggles wanted to burn witches and wizards on big bonfires just like they used to in the past, and afterwards he hadn’t been able to sleep. He wasn’t supposed to get out of bed - and if he needed anything he was supposed to go get the governess – but that night he’d run all the way to his mother’s room, instead. She hadn’t said much when he’d told her about his nightmare, but she’d pulled back the bed covers and told him he could sleep there, if he wanted to. It had only happened that one time, but it had made it all alright, really. She’d put her arm across him and Sirius had felt better.

He’s got no idea why he’s thinking about his mother _now_.

“Shall we head off, then?” James asks, shouldering his bag and kicking snow with the toe of his boot, “Those mince pies back at Hogwarts are calling my name.”

“I’m good to go,” Peter answers, “And we’ve got to…..what did that women say? Put the flowers on ice, or something?”

“I think she said in the fridge, but we’ll make due. I don’t see why they can’t keep _themselves_ fresh. Why hasn’t anyone come up with a charm for that?”

They start to walk back towards the school, chatting about the ridiculous art of floristry, and it takes them a while to notice that Sirius hasn’t moved.

“Wotcher, Pads?” James calls back, “Aren’t you coming?”

Sirius swallows. He hasn’t really planned for this; he’s kind of been hoping that something will come to him in the moment.

“Errr…..” he struggles with words and thinks he must look a right berk, “right behind you! You just….carry on for a bit. I’ve just…..uhhhh….got something I need to check out.”

James knows something is up. Even Peter knows that something is up, but Sirius just beams at them – a little too enthusiastically, perhaps – and they shoot him dark looks but begrudgingly leave him to it. Sirius hears one of them mutter _off his nut he is, you know, just impossible_ but they’re leaving so he couldn’t really care less. He waits just long enough until they are fully out of sight and then he checks his pocket watch again. Four-thirty. He has just enough time. He breathes in deeply – _it’s now or never! Courage man_ \- and then disappears into the shop behind him.

~

"Good Spirit! Your nature intercedes for me, and pities me. Assure me that I yet may change these shadows you have shown me, by an altered life!"

This year, they have gone all-out. Lightening strikes the ceiling and illuminates the dark hall in a flash with a crack like the castle has just lost the astronomy tower. Several rows gasp and jump and turn eyes filled with abject, childlike horror to each other. Sirius can’t blame them; there is a terrifying atmosphere to it all. The hall feels shrouded and tense and it doesn’t help that Death – not four feet in front of them – looks something like a dementor. There is some next-level kind of magic at work here. Of course, the seventh years always take this opportunity to show-off, but Dumbledore must have added a little extra touch of evil to things this year. Sirius would never admit it to anyone – he’s at that age where it has stopped being ok but hasn’t yet come full circle – but he’s sort of _scared_. 

"Spirit! Hear me! I am not the man I was! I will not be the man I must have been but for this intercourse! Why show me this, if I am past all hope?"

Scrooge twists and contorts into various hideous and grotesque forms to depict the agony of his great feeling, and Andy Serkis clearly has an _immense_ career ahead of him in Transfiguration.

Death _looms_ , and Sirius has never really fully understood that term until now. The shadows in the room grow taller and darker, and Sirius thinks that he isn’t the only one who suddenly feels as if there is no hope! - spare me! I will change! I will be good! – because somewhere in the grim darkness in front of him, some poor kid is actually _crying_.

Magical suggestion is just cruel. The ministry should make it an Unforgivable.

"Men's courses will foreshadow certain ends, to which, if persevered in, they must lead. But if the courses be departed from, the ends will change! Say it is thus with what you show me."

Vaguely, Sirius is aware that this is backwards, but then the lightning strikes again and in the flash the whole school takes on the appearance of rotting, miserable, skeletal-corpses bound with meters and meters of hard, rusty chains. Sirius’ heart makes a leap for his throat and a tiny little _yelp_ escapes from it. It lasts for less than a second, but Sirius feels the weight of iron around his wrists and neck for what feels like _hours_ ; he can smell rust and decay and as he looks down at his hands he sees that one of the links reads _stealing the headmaster’s personal pies from the kitchens after hours._ His mouth instantly dries up and he gapes. How does he know?! A shiver runs down his spine.

On stage, Scrooge is at the peak of his great misery and there is wind howling and thunder booming and ghosts rising from the graves around him moaning in pain from their many awful sins and everything is very bleak and very dark and so terribly beyond hope of repair and before Sirius even realises what he’s doing, he’s grabbed hold of Moony’s hand.

Remus doesn’t pull away. He, too, is possibly in the throes of great despair.

And then Death turns – slowly, cripplingly, _enlongatingly_ – into a bed post and the whole school sags with relief. It’s like something has let them go from its icy grip. The air in the Hall gets warmer and the light on stage brighter as Sirius realises that it’s the dawn.

"I will live in the Past, the Present, and the Future! The Spirits of all Three shall strive within me. Oh Jacob Marley! Heaven and the Christmas Time be praised for this!  I say it on my knees, old Jacob, on my knees!"

The dark feeling is gone and is quickly being replaced by the growing feeling of new hope and good things to come. A bubble of excitement begins to bud in Sirius’ stomach. The light on stage grows and grows, not brighter but _warmer_ , and suddenly the Hall smells like pine leaves and Christma _s_. Crisp snow starts to fall from overhead.

"What's to-day?" cries Scrooge, whose great joy and good spirits has now lifted him above their heads where is he floating around, beaming down on them all like the sun itself.

"Eh?"

They’ve planted someone in the audience to play along, who Sirius sort of recognises as some Hufflepuff third-year, and that’s the oldest trick in the book, but it works.

"What's to-day, my fine fellow?" Scrooge bellows above them.

"To-day?" replies Hufflepuff, who’s not the best actor ever, "Why, Christmas Day."

A murmur spreads through the rows. Sirius can see their faces filling with blithesome wonder as the feeling of excitement and anticipation grows and grows. He’s beginning to tingle and he turns to Remus and huffs an eager smile.

That’s when he notices that Remus, far from letting him go now that the Great Doom has passed, has actually turned his hand up into his own.

The stage quickly fills with characters, brightly dressed and rosy-cheeked, and Sirius spies a kind-of Slughorn and a sort-of McGonagall and a few others and realises that it’s about now, really, that the Polyjuice potion would start to wear off. A fire appears and a long table and the characters crowd round it. Happiness leaks into the air itself and Sirius feels the room swelling with it.

For this, he supposes, magical suggestion is sort of worth it. It’s just like actually feeling ecstatically happy, only it smells more of snowflakes and logs burning.

The table fills with what everyone realises is real food and Sirius finds that he is hungry again.

"A merry Christmas, Bob," said Scrooge, "A merrier Christmas, Bob, my good fellow, than I have given you for many a year. I'll raise your salary, and endeavour to assist your struggling family, and we will discuss your affairs this very afternoon, over a Christmas bowl of smoking bishop, Bob. Make up the fires, and buy another coal-scuttle before you dot another i, Bob Cratchit!"

Sirius is starting to feel all kinds of emotional. It’s just – this bloody Christmas Spirit! – it’s so infectious and so wonderful and so loving it’s like being hugged by everyone who’s ever meant something to him all at once and Sirius just wants to start handing out candy canes and kissing people fondly and telling them that he loves them _all_ , he really does, and god bless them!

Dumbledore does the voice-over; he has the sparkling tones and gentle, granddad-like timbres for it.

“And Scrooge was better than his word. He did it all, and infinitely more; and to Tiny Tim, who did not die, he was a second father. He became as good a friend, as good a master, and as good a man, as the good old city knew, or any other good old city, town, or borough, in the good old world.  Some people laughed to see the alteration in him, but he let them laugh, and little heeded them; for he was wise enough to know that nothing ever happened on this globe, for good, at which some people did not have their fill of laughter in the outset; and knowing that such as these would be blind anyway, he thought it quite as well that they should wrinkle up their eyes in grins, as have the malady in less attractive forms.  His own heart laughed: and that was quite enough for him.”

Sirius realises that he has tears in his eyes and he just might have been embarrassed, except that he really, _really_ doesn’t care and besides which he can already hear James, on the other side of him, sniffing. Later, they’ll all blame Dumbledore’s magic, but the truth is that they’re all moved by something even greater than the story-telling of their headmaster. As cheesy – and impossible – as it might be to admit, they are all moved by _love_ , because that’s Christmas. Sirius squeezes Remus’ hand.

“God bless us! Every one!”

The play ends with a toast; the lights linger for a short while but then a curtain drops from nowhere above the stage and the characters and scenery disappear and the lights in the Hall return to normal and the audience _sighs_ , as if after a good meal. They’re all on their feet only seconds later, applauding and cheering as the cast re-appear for their bows and someone in the rows shouts out “Any of that turkey left Mr Scrooge?!” and everyone laughs.

Now that he hasn’t got Remus’ hand anymore, Sirius doesn’t quite know what to do with his own. He reaches round and scratches the back of his head as the teachers and seventh-years begin to file out of the Hall and everyone on his bench starts to turn to each other. The noise of talking is suddenly very loud.

“Well!” Sirius says and feels himself to be rather shrill, “What about that, eh?”

“I swear that man is demented,” James takes off his glasses and gives them a swift clean from – Sirius realises quickly – his _tears_ , “Did any of you…..uhh….have anything written of your chains? You know, from before?”

“Pies.” Sirius answers with a shake of his head.

“That time I trailed mud into mum’s white carpet,” Peter still looks a bit frightened, “How could he know? It was at _home_.”

“I suspect he has minions you know. Leagues of them.”

Remus is oddly quiet, but no one says anything.

“Right, I’m for a drink after all that. Just the one. Pete? We can check on the corsages while we’re there.”

Peter takes a deep breath as if to steady himself. Sirius can almost hear his internal pep talk: _it was only suggestion, no one’s been spying on you, everything’s fine_. “Right,” he says, and to his credit when he stands up he only shakes a little bit.

“Bring one back for me or I shall curse you and all your descendants!” Sirius calls after them and then he’s left with Moony, who still hasn’t said anything. Around them, students are getting up and making their way back to common rooms and classrooms and places where, Sirius thinks, they will be just fine and chatting away like normal and not being awkward at all.

“So……what was on your chains, then?” Sirius tries, because one of them has to, “Too much chocolate? That one time when you put a library book back in the wrong place?”

They have to try and find the humour, he thinks, because right now it would really _help_.

“I don’t really know.” Remus says – which is what he says when what he _really_ wants to say is _I don’t want to tell you_. He looks all kinds of thoughtful and is staring off into the distance like the last place in the world that he _wants_ to look is Sirius.

Sirius supposes that he can’t really blame him, only he wants to because technically _Remus started it_. He’s not going to do that though. This is _Moony_ , and Sirius isn’t as stupid and as everyone thinks he is.

“It’ll be us next year,” he says softly, “What do you reckon – the Count of Monte Cristo?”

Remus cracks nearly half a smile and Sirius is encouraged by it.

“What about a Panto? Very popular at this time of year – and you’d make an _excellent_ Window Twanky.”

Remus laughs at that and Sirius decides that it must be ok, then, for him to give Remus a little nudge with his hip.

“I suppose you’d be the dashing hero – Aladdin, or Dick Whittington?”

“Life cast me in the role!”

It’s good that they can be like this, Sirius thinks. With what had passed, he wasn’t one hundred percent sure, and Remus can be surprisingly mean when he’s brooding on something. Sirius _hates_ it when Remus is mad at him. He doesn’t want Remus to be mad. It would spoil things.

“Kitchens?” he asks, wiggling his eyebrows, “All that food has got to have disappeared _somewhere_ , and I’m starving.”

Remus looks across at him and holds his gaze for a short while and it’s fond, but there’s also something else there, something not quite new but newly _noticed_.

“You are so terribly predictable,” he says and Sirius grins.

”Alright; yes.”


	5. Friday

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which there is much drama before the Yule Ball, Sirius has half realised thoughts and plans, everything is nearly a disaster but it all works out in the end. 
> 
> Merry Christmas :)

Hogwarts wakes to chaos.

Despite all the preparations made earlier in the week, the students feel as if they are not prepared at _all_ , and they have to have off from morning classes. They were only a formality anyway, and so their Professors begrudgingly give their permission. It’s the final day of school before the Christmas hols and the day of the Yule Ball and exhilaration - mixed with stress, dramatics and just the barest hint of fear - bounces off every wall: no one is safe. In Hufflepuff, nearly all of the fifth year girls are crying because their dresses were involved in an unfortunate snow leak overnight. People are whispering that five Slytherin girls and two boys have already made it to the hospital wing (some kind of fight and a bout of mass hysterics) and Ravenclaw have locked themselves up their tower and told the Knocker not to permit any visitors while the Grey Lady stands guard, handing out withering looks to anyone who dares try. Prefects rush this way and that, trying their best to pacify and placate their houses, as their Heads roll their eyes in their stormy faces and try not to get too involved. Students can be seen in their _thousands_ swarming back and forth to the owlerly as last minute gifts, dress robes and other such essentials come pouring in and where the Headmaster is, no one knows.

Probably looking down at them all from somewhere, chuckling.

In Gryffindor the mood is no less tense. The girls have already held some sort of conference – it must have been _very_ early on in morning – where they unanimously decided that _they aren’t going to deal with those annoying, pig-headed Gryffindor males_ , and they’ve placed a rather aggressive (but no less charming) enchantment on the stairs to their dormitories that says _exactly that_ whenever the boys come looking to solicit their assistance.

“Fat lot of help you lot are!” James yells up at them as he fights to free his foot from one of the steps that has suddenly grown a mouth and is trying to _eat him_ and Sirius thinks that he probably shouldn’t have said that – but keeps quiet. He knows danger when it’s struggling to grasp the complexities of a bow-tie.

“Fuckery fuck!” James yells eloquently before falling backwards onto the floor. Sirius decides that he wants to be helpful.

“Maybe there’s a charm?” he calls out from the other side of the room because who knows! maybe there is.

“Already tired that,” Sirius can’t see James - because he’s lying prostrate behind the settee - but he imagines his face must be the very picture of doom, “Doesn’t exist. These things are just so….so….fucking fidgety!”

“You know we have ages before the Ball yet, right? Hours. I have great faith that you will learn the mysteries of dress robes by then.”

“Thanks Padfoot you’re _fucking useless_.”

Everywhere Sirius looks, the picture is the same. Dennis Waterman can’t fit into his fancy trousers and is running around desperately looking for someone with a spare pair or a needle; Nicolas Cage woke to an acne breakout like something out of a horror film and has managed to turn himself purple with too many charms to the face and Anglesey Harriott forgot to get his date flowers and is currently running back and forth the bathroom, throwing up. Sirius thinks that in Anglesey’s case he’s got the right idea: Amanda Holden has a terrible reputation for eating the souls of bad dates. He can’t help but feel a little smug – _he’s_ not lost his head in the general madness that is teenage dating – but something holds him back. He thinks forward to the day ahead and what could possibly happen to make _him_ throw up and turn funny colours and forget how to do simple things like fix a tie. _There but for the Grace of good upbringing_ he thinks and swallows tightly.

The truth is; they all feel as if they’ve so much at risk.

“Why don’t you ask Remus?” he calls over to James again and for a second or two worries that his best friend just might have been ended by a small piece of black ribbon, “I’m sure he’ll know. Come on – up!”

Sirius walks over and hauls James up from the floor. The look of doom on his face would be hilarious, if it weren’t so painfully accurate. James makes a noise like there is no hope left in the world, but he lets Sirius drag him up the stairs to their dormitory.

In their room, Remus has very neatly spread his dress robes out on his very neatly made bed. He has one tie in his right hand and another in his left, and he looks from his robes to his ties and then back again and sighs. Peter’s no longer there - and when he realises this James lets out a strangled cry of “Fuck!”, throws his bow tie down on the disaster that’s his bed and then runs from the room with his hands in his hair, muttering _fuckfuckfuck_ all the way. Sirius watches him go and then shakes his head. No hope; there really is no hope.

“Don’t go down there; it’s defcon five.” He tells Remus as he walks over to his bed and lies across it on his stomach so that he can see what Remus is doing more closely.

“Ties?” he asks, and Remus looks between the two in his hands and then sighs again and sits down on the trunk at the foot of his bed.

“I thought you already decided to wear the blue one?”

“I know it doesn’t _matter_ ,” Remus says, rubbing his thumb into his forehead, “because I know it’s not like I’m going with anyone, but…..I’d, I don’t know, I’d still like to get it right?”

“It’s not an exam, Moony.” Sirius says dryly, “You’re not seriously considering the yellow one, are you? Yellow is not your colour.”

“Do you not think…..with the pinstripe, you see, and the lining….”

“No.”

“Oh dear.”

Remus places both ties down carefully onto his dress robes and looks at them quizzically and Sirius really, really hopes he’s not about to change this mind. He hates that Remus second guesses himself all the time; never sure of himself or that _no one_ should look that good accented in blue.

“Aren’t you getting ready, Sirius?” Remus asks him, interrupting his train of thought.

“Moony there’s _hours_ yet. I don’t see the point.”

Sirius knows instantly that Remus adds on _and neither should you_ and that’s _not_ what he said, or what he meant. He rolls quickly off his bed and walks over to him and sits down next to him on the trunk.

“Look, Remus….” Sirius says and looks at him with what he hopes is a look that conveys his great seriousness, “Wear the blue one, alright? Please? Just…..the blue one, and the matching pocket handkerchief. You’ll look really good, I promise.”

Something passes across Remus face – something light and almost hopeful, but also a little sad – and he nods slowly, looking back down at his blue tie.

“Alright,” he says, “Blue. I do like blue. Do you want to get some lunch, or something?”

Sirius could _squeeze_ him, he’s so grateful.

“Yes! Lunch, excellent. Lets.”

Remus smiles at him then and Sirius thinks: _maybe_.

~

When Sirius had been asking himself _how does one show Remus Lupin a good time at the Yule Ball?_ it soon became clear that the answer is: _you take him away from it as soon as feasible possible_.

The Great Hall looks like the inside of a snowflake. It is, Sirius thinks begrudgingly, very tastefully done; white silk drapes billowing from the walls and windows, a star-filled night sky ceiling, floating crystal lights and candles. The tables are done up in white and silver ribbons, the floor is dusted with what is either a light snow fall or sugar powder and in the air hangs the barest hint of glitter that sparkles. Sirius almost wishes he could poke a little fun at it; have his usual well-meaning have-at the decoration geeks, but ultimately it really is very beautiful and for the first time, that _counts f_ or something.

It’s now the part of the evening where everything is in full swing; the music is at its loudest, the dancing is at its wildest, the drinking is at its drunkennest and even the teachers are caught up in the moment, laughing and dancing and socialising like they aren’t teachers at all, but real people. Everyone has settled into a comfortable rhythm, finally. At one point, Sirius had worried that it wasn’t going to happen; that James and Lily’s inability to get things right would leave them stumbling head first into disaster; that Pete’s particularly unique brand of conversation would bore his date into leaving with someone else; that all the various couples around him would struggle to get past the initial awkwardness, become over powered by the great task they had set themselves of wooing the opposite sex and being a delightful date and would collectively collapse into a pit of failure and weeping – but none of that had happened. Somehow, they have managed to surmount impossible odds and one giant crisis of a morning to attain success at last, and Sirius think’s – no, he _knows_ , - that they all have him to thank for it, because _he_ spiked the punch, thank you very much, and so he can take credit for everyone getting over themselves and getting on with the job.

Because it’s now the part of the evening where everything is in full swing, it means that it’s also the part of the evening that Remus is at his most awkward and most out of place and most in need of a cupboard to hide in. He’s been showing signs of bolting for about twenty minutes, and he has this uncomfortable, squirmy look that let’s Sirius know that he’s starting to feel the walls closing in and the crowds suffocating him. Luckily, it’s also the part of the evening where pretty soon the music will slow down and people will pair off and the slow dancing will commence and the couples will only have eyes for each other _._ And that means one thing. _No one will notice them._

Sirius has snuck off to the drinks table. Behind him, the students are swaying in rhythmic dancing, James and Lily are inching ever closer and closer and Pete is flush with the rush of excitement. Sirius, however, now finds that he is feeling all sorts of queasy, which is why the drinks table is such a good idea: alcohol had certainly helped last time, and Sirius never expected to be this anxious.

But really, he should have.

He downs a quick cup of punch – takes a moment to appreciate just how well he has judged the portions of vodka to juice – and then pours out a fresh one. He looks at it longingly, but he doesn’t drink this one. It’s not for him. Instead, he carefully carries it across the Hall, keeping it safe from the doom of being spilled onto the floor by a rouge elbow or shoulder, to where the group are already beginning to pair off; James and Lily to one side, Pete and his date – whatsherface – to the other. Remus, Sirius sees, has managed to slink back into the shadows by the wall and has almost completely disappeared into them, his face a painful contortion of acute self-awareness. Seeing him like that, so unsure of himself, looking out at what must seem so unattainable to him, gives Sirius pangs he’s not sure he’s felt before. But that’s what the cup of punch is for. Sirius can’t have Remus feeling this way. Not when it’s so _unnecessary_.

Sirius walks up to Remus and casually bumps his hip with his hip.

“Here,” he says quietly, “this is for you.”

Remus looks up at him with eyes that never fail to be surprised when kindness is directed at him, and that is so Remus that Sirius is momentarily struck dumb.

“That’s so you,” he tells Remus a moment later, “why wouldn’t I bring you a drink, you pillock.”

Remus takes the cup from Sirius and smiles.

“There aren’t any tadpoles in here, are there?”

Sirius laughs through his nose.

“No. And there never will be again.”

It’s true of course; not just the tadpoles but all of it. After tonight, nothing will ever be the same again. Oh sure, it’s all innocent enough when you’re buying dress robes and picking flowers and dancing to The Strange Brothers, but then there are eyes to get lost in and a funny anxiety that clutches at your throat and you find yourself having thoughts about things that push out any thoughts you have about tadpoles from your head, and then before you know it, the things of your boyhood have slipped away quietly while you are busy dancing and thinking about how it _is_ nice like you had thought it might be.

Sirius would light a funeral pyre, but that would set the Yule Ball decorations on fire.

Instead, he tells himself that It’s Time.

He leans in close to Remus’ face.

He thinks: _this is it_.

He also thinks: _oh Merlin_.

He opens his mouth slightly, slowly.

“Remus,” he says closer to a whisper than he had intended, “want to get out of here?”

Remus looks up confused and even a little suspicious, and maybe he was going to ask Sirius what was going on, but then he catches Sirius’s eyes and something stops him.

“Ok. Sure.”

~

Sirius would never say that he’d had bags of confidence that it would go well, or even go _at all_ \- that the planets would align and that the angels would sing and that the people would cheer and herald in a new age of peace and understanding and light – but in all the time he’d been thinking about it, he hadn’t _really_ stopped to think about it. He’d thought about the gift and he’d thought about it being kind of nice and he’d even gone so far as to think that maybe Remus would like it too - but he hadn’t thought about what to _say_ , or what it would _actually be like_ to drag Remus all the way to the top of the astronomy tower on this starless night at Merlin knows what time it is and try to _do_ this. He hadn’t thought that it would be dark and cold and actually very terrifying and that bats aren’t exactly the best of witness for this kind of thing or that Remus might have preferred to stay in the Hall, actually, and have Sirius do this in front of their peers and teachers because _that’s what he’s got to prove himself right now_ …..and now he’s babbling and it’s so, so ineloquent. He feels suddenly too large and too tall and too awkward and is that _sweat_ , or did he dunk his arms into the toilet at some point?

He has to try though. He has to try because _this_ ; this is important.

“You and me, though Remus,” he says, trying to remember where he left off before his inner tangent. “We’ve always……we’ve _always_ been……haven’t we?”

Sirius’ mouth is dry and he’s getting his words all mixed up and Remus, poor bugger, is looking at him with a slightly petrified and also sort of worried look and he’s not getting what Sirius is _trying_ to say at all.

“Good friends? What’s going on Sirius, are you dying or something?”

_Yes, actually_ , Sirius' brain says, and then _why is this so, so hard?_ Sirius sort of wants to shake Remus a bit, because now that he thinks about it, Remus isn’t exactly making this any easier _at all_.

“Oh for gods…..stop second guessing me!” If Sirius is second-guessed by Remus just one more time, he’s going to kill himself, “ _Please_ , just. You’re always second guessing me and I’m not……I just….just listen, okay, I’m _saying_ ….stop trying to _guess_ what I’m saying and _listen to me_.”

Remus exhales a shaky breath and then from nowhere, Sirius feels a change in him. It’s like something inside of Remus _shifts_ and makes room for something else; as if he can’t be logical Remus and _this potential_ Remus at the same time: the old nature has to give way to the new.

“Okay,” Remus says quietly: “Okay” like he’s frightened, like letting go of his beloved logic is like jumping out of a plane or exposing himself to small pox.

Sirius realises that Remus is taking this risk for _him_.

That will never stop being astonishing.

But where was he, though? Sirius concentrates hard ……..what had had he just been thinking? Oh, right. He swallows again, but it’s no good; his mouth will be forever dry now. He has to force himself to use it.

“The only time you have ever _not_ tried to explain things away,” he says slowly and carefully, because this really _cannot_ get lost in translation, “was Wednesday night, and then that kiss happened. Have I thanked you for that yet, by the way?”

Sirius can feel Remus’ shock more than see it. His skin gets hotter under Sirius’ hands and his pulse quicker and his breath becomes more drawn. Sirius doesn’t want to let go but he forces himself to, because he has to do this _right_. He has to make sure he does things properly, because this is Remus sodding Lupin, for the love of Merlin.

Sirius swallows for the millionth time and reaches into the pocket of his dress robes. Its deep and he hits the sides a few times, fumbling through the fabric like a crazed lunatic. He finds it though, eventually, and pulls it out with far less ceremony and far more cursing than he would have liked. The plastic box has a raised, see-through dome and it hasn’t – Sirius notices with great relief – broken or scratched or anything. He hands it over to Remus, who takes it tentatively like it doesn’t really belong to him when _of course it does_.

Sirius understands now that it could never belong to anyone else.

Remus is completely silent as he looks at it. Slowly, he opens the box, lifting the big dome off the base. He remains silent as he carefully places the empty dome on the floor and stares at the contents. Sirius’ heart is going to _stop_ ; if Remus doesn’t do something soon Sirius is going to take back this gift and throw it at him and then scream and throw himself out of the window. It’s _okay_ though, surely, because Remus’ face has gone all soft and sort of sad - not in a bad way but in the kind of way that people’s faces go when they realise what’s been missing all this time. Like a piece of a jigsaw puzzle left unlooked for - it’s only when it’s whole that the picture makes any _sense_ and then you see it and go _ohhhh; that’s what that is_.  Remus unhooks the gift from its clasp and lifts it free of the box altogether. He looks up at Sirius – _finally_ – and then with this one look, Sirius knows instantly that Remus gets it.

The boutonnière matches his blue tie and pocket handkerchief.

“What I’m trying to say,” Sirius says bravely, swallowing again to keep his voice from breaking – _it’s now or never, do it do it do it_! - “Is that I think I’ve always been in love with you, Remus Lupin – always, as far back as I can remember - but I haven’t always _known_ that. I do now.”

Remus is wide-eyed and silent, but slowly he hands the boutonniere and pin to Sirius and he nods his head ever so slightly. Sirius takes them both and with gentle, delicate fingers pins the boutonniere to Remus’ shirt pocket. He doesn’t stop there – he doesn’t _need_ to, he reasons, not now – and he presses one hand to Remus’ chest and cups his face with the other. Remus’ hands close over his wrists and he tilts his head up and then their foreheads come together and press down. It’s strange and yet so familiar it’s like they’ve always been doing this. _Why haven’t we?_ Sirius thinks, but then adds _we sort of have, in a way_ and it feels good to finally admit it to each other and Sirius presses a slow and deeply poignant kiss to the top of Remus’ nose. The quiet is like blanket, wrapping them both to each other in the dark of the tower, so that Sirius notices the way Remus is breathing, the way Remus feels and all the thousands of little details that holding Remus this way means – the way his nose fits into the corner of Sirius’ eye, the way his breath is hot on Sirius’ lips, the coarse line of new stubble just beginning to shade his chin – so that he doesn’t need Remus to say _anything_. Remus has been telling Sirius how he feels for a long, long time now, anyway. Sirius has just never really got it, until recently,

When Remus does speak, he breaks away only slightly and says:

“You know; these roses smell like chocolate.”

Sirius grins and pulls Remus closer.

“I invented a charm.” He whispers into his ear.

Remus folds his arms around Sirius’ hips and leans into him, resting his head on Sirius shoulder and there, in the astronomy tower as the rest of the school finishes up their ball several floors and classrooms beneath them, for the first time _ever_ they don’t have to keep guessing or interpreting or assuming on behalf of each other anymore, because now they finally _know_.

And it isn’t _kind of nice_ , like Sirius had thought it might be.

It’s _everything_ ; and even more wonderful than Christmas time itself.


End file.
